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MY LIFE AS A LOVER Brandon Brown

This collection first published by Detumescence 2005 Š Brandon Brown 2005 All rights reserved 07221980 The rights of Brandon Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patent Act 2005 Detumescence 798 Post St # 205 San Francisco, CA 94109 Detumescence is the imprint of Pq Books, Hic Bibitur Books, Fretan Book, Ura Books etc. Typeset by Herman T Wilmperfink XXXIV Printed & Stapled in Chicago with the assistance of Harold Palloo & Mr. D.T. Taaka


I My life has been a book. The chapters that lead up to the book have a type of prosody also. The book my life is is the book of my life as a lover. There were moments before my life as a lover which are wholly distorted by the text of my life as a lover. These moments are very boring. Moreover, I am incapable of articulating anything of which those moments did consist. This, then, is my whole life.

II The desire to desire love entered me excessively at 9:00 a.m., September 9th of that year. I began to love my love, and I promise I yielded to love’s commands. Shortly thereafter, a warrant for my arrest was issued. I was scourged, etc. and there were many tears. In the hospital I had to decide, would I love love even after I had been so injured on account of my love. Sickeningly I proceeded according to the words of the poet, “not thinking the love was better than any other discovery.� There were many walking in the leonine alleys of the city ________ in that year. They could not call my love by any other name than the name they called my love. Love was a governor to me, a prior principle, which is why the story of the beginning of my loving my love is also the beginning of my life. I have omitted the other ideas I was having at the time that did not correspond to my ownership by love. I was not even then quite just a noun.

III At some point near the moment I became a captive to love I became a poet. I desired on account of my actual total absorption by love to apply the technology of writing to articulate the love I loved. This was a difficult procedure, as is illustrated by the tale of The Lumberjack Lover, that wretch whose life illustrates that what you love you hack out of the ground and annihilate into shavings. Such was my experience when I tried to make a poem about my love. But my quandary was not solved by virtue of firstly, my great love; secondly, the intensity of the love; and finally, the urgency of writing poems based on my having become a poet. I resolved to send my poems to famous poets. They considered that I was being totally torn apart by love by my tearing apart in poetry for my love. I was considered quite wealthy in this respect.

IV Then I began this sonnet which begins: awed din enemy, not vested, called “we.” awed din enemy, not vested, called “we” came so low, cored me, tentatively man a quantity feels a shadow, the plan purloined delicacy copiously. belly flu more aching drove under knee my car resting, caved in a loaned annul keys a doublooned archer press the panel, a consciousness of solely bitter tree. he trusted boys’ and girls’ toys suspiring he cried me Satan’s necklace, saved or tied, keyed my party speaking to fucked-window. alarmed apartment desecrated morning, it comes, pain of the day, kills his becried case of ugly consumes the tree then sows This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first part I extend greetings and ask for an answer, while in the second I signify what requires an answer. The second part begins: he trusted boys’ and girls’ toys suspiring.

V Clearly I loved in late capitalism. This greatly informs the manner in which I so ardently loved. For example, I had to consider whether my love and also my love for my love were exchangeable commodities and if so, what was the actual or potential worth of either my love or my love for my love? Do you wonder if I could actually reckon my love as such? I considered also whether I was bestowing a value upon my love. It felt as if I was being bestowed into, by an intrusive hacking action. As in actual identity thievery, in which my individual intentions were replaced with only the intention for love and my love. But was I returning such a violent feeling by commodifying my love? I spent many days in deep calculation before I realized that my love was invisible, and thereby my entire methodology for reckoning had produced faulty findings.

VI Then I devised this sonnet which begins: you cross astride the eyes and the heart of. you cross astride the eyes and the heart of and start to cut from dream my reposing disguard to hide the life of the self-loved and see amuck how love is assaulting and lays prolonged a flaying so brute-like my wounds hourly have sense in the turn, fly the face throws wrongs upon the exchange rate and new flowers we vocalized louds I. who loves to love retracts the embodied and takes to court the running of eyes from it’s him who dares that shoots all the arrows that shoot you up the flank you have studied who sees you hurt the fear struck the soul dumb decides who cares, a death of wheelbarrows. There are two principal parts of this sonnet. In the first part my intent is to call upon Love’s faithful through the words of the prophet Jeremiah. In the second part I tell of the position in which Love had placed me, with a meaning other than that expressed in the beginning and ending of the sonnet, and I tell what I have lost. The second part begins: who sees you hurt.

VII Let me tell you about some of the physical afflictions that accompanied the assault upon me by love. There was pain and gnawing in the upper abdomen, nausea and vomiting. There was also fluid retention in the legs and abdomen, jaundice, intense itching, abnormal metabolism of the bile pigment, coagulation defects, and esophageal vein bleeding. At times there were diarrhea and weight loss. Generally I felt a burning sensation in my lower chest. At times, bitter-tasting liquid regurgitated up into my mouth. I had dysphagia and was uncomfortable. I lost the taste for food and cigarettes and had arthritis. My eyes and skin turned yellow, my urine dark, and my stool a putty-white color.

VIII After these poems had been somewhat made known to people, since one of my friends had heard it, she was moved to ask me for my definition of Love, having acquired from my words, perhaps, confidence in me beyond my worth. I wrote this sonnet as a response, which begins: If my ego quests Madonna she hates. if my ego quests Madonna she hates nonsense mimics desuing core gentile; two deep kiosks own the scent of the veal, if he has desperate penis vitiates on the t.v. seen over and crudely giraffes mediate televised meals, sagas adorn accordingly soggy real if at all more doting’s dealing rudely the animal me is doles the parousa pianos suspended controversy; sick, he banged out the piano with force: abhor my pardon, not lamenting rue one figure dies on napkin for mercy gives over pervading more loco course. This sonnet has three parts. The second is like a beggar asking aid from the preceding and following parts, and it begins here: giraffes mediate televised meals. The third begins: sagas adorn accordingly soggy real. I do not mention how this last act of my love’s mouth works on the hearts of the people because my memory is faulty.

IX Other people were constantly looking at me and saying, “Look at how many personalities you have!” when I was in love. Musing on this, I composed this sonnet, which begins: a grabby thorn, because it spats of you. a grabby thorn, because it spats of you combs frenziedly to dwarf awhile with me, and so melioratively spats of loss it maims the heap, surprise! Its own speck the sot saws up the heap. Who is this one that combs with consideration for our mime and who positions such out-of-bounds streams that he will not let other thorns reluct? the heap replies to her: “O pensile sot, this is a lithic net aspirant of loss who brims all her designated hitters; her very liege and all his inflation have come from that comparative one’s exports who was persuaded about our martial law.” This sonnet has two sections. In the first I tell, speaking to some unidentified person, how I was aroused from a delirious dream by certain citizens.

X My only experience with mapmaking to this point was an experience of it being a thing in principle guided over by love. There was an abyss between myself and my love. I could not interpret the voiding distance. I supposed later that my attempts at interpretation of the abyss between myself and my love, or otherwise put, my love and my love, were themselves partially successful interpretive gestures. Many people viewed these gestures with the result that I became constantly surrounded by the police. There was in some way a suspicious thing about my being gesturing in an interpretive way about the abyss between my love and my love. I also realized that the abyss came about on account of the very account that I was loving. I assumed that interpretation would inscribe a course for the two things, my love and my love, to seek out and find each other. As it turns out, I was innocent and perilous.

XI I was crying a lot and hoping for pity from my love. Through my tears, I began to compose this sonnet of exhortation which begins: chiastic arms press me gently, chord me. chiastic arms press me gently, chord me not quite cusping the vinyl, dire present in circles my rescue you’re preventing, salutations in lore, sir, see you more go around quasi-creature eating ore dead tempo, keys up stalling lucidly can’t my apartment be more subtly quite essential a member to my horror allegory, my simple brave tenants my core in manhood is all broken halves Madonna revolts in the drapes Doug mended boy, vaguely she dressed the core of hardened. lays the rent, ultimately panacea, oppressed girdle not video’d gendering Since the division is made only to help reveal the meaning of the thing divided, I do not divide this sonnet; for since what has been said of its occasion is sufficiently clear, there is no need for division. Therefore, it is not wise for me to clear up uncertainties, for my words of clarification would be meaningless to some and superfluous to others.

XII There were other books and structures about love I was reading, being in love. It seemed to me that some of the best books about love were concealing the fact that they were, in fact, about love. In this way I played the role of archaeologist, if it were an ancient book, or detective, if it was quite contemporary. On the other hand, some of the books, while explicitly stating their theme as Love, turned out to permit an onslaught of unimaginable violence, to beings and economic units. These books, I realized, did not influence my own book, but did influence the manner in which I was captured, imprisoned, mildly tortured, and being-put-in-solitary-confinement by Love. It was comforting to realize that others had experienced a love like the love I loved, though sometimes it seemed that my love was a unique experience. Other structures or books confused me, and I could never tell whether or not they were based on love.

XIII Surely indeed I loved in my own languages. This was evident by the way I discussed my utter vanquishment by love in speech and in text, and also in the way I addressed lovingly my love. When I addressed my love in this way, with tender immense humility, I most often would make the address in English. It seemed as if English was the best language to speak about the love I loved, and it was the first to appear in my mouth when I thought to speak of love. It similarly governed the ways in which I wrote about love, and sometimes in poetry. I knew full well that other languages might be well-suited to a discourse of love. I also knew that discussing love was not the same as being in love. I was in love, and also discussing it. I wished at times to make a discussion that was itself completely the same as being in love. It was quickly evident that I could not do this in English. I began to ardently study other languages, which gave me on one hand vertigo, and on the other hand made me an even more suspicious character in city _________.

XIV At this time, I thought of a sonnet in another language, which perfectly expressed my feelings of pain and love which begins: I’m running slamming my head on the rocks. I’m running slamming my head on the rocks rocking slamming rocks on my head, tearing my shirt by the rocks and running crazy and naked on the rocks running them on my head on the shirt I’m tearing and crazy on the rocks running on my head for a while slamming my shirt on the rocks and my head on the rocks I am crazy and in love tearing my head on the slamming the shirt crazy on the rocks I cry and I howl running my hands on my shirt and the rocks I howl on my head running in love on the rocks I am crazy and naked and slamming my head on the rocks running in love I am tearing and crazy in love I realize that this sonnet is very difficult. I will explain it for the reader in a later, even more difficult chapter.

XV Can I tell you about my daydream of love? Do I permit my pen to scratch out in writing the nodes of sound/image which I experienced so wholly privately? Could my daydream have the same significance in writing as it did for me, the wretch, on that day? Would I not find myself in the same position as the jester in that great tale The Terrifying Other, who learned in the end that the grammar of private experience is separate from the grammar governing acts of speech and writing? Would I not make myself vulnerable to harm or death-from-the-state if I succeeded? Would you accept the finished story as a failed translation? Would the text of my daydream about love be itself a loving action, instructing you in some way of my love, and how astonishingly demolished I was from love and my love? Would I not be a murderer by throwing out like a rock the actually soundless music which occurred to me behind my eyes?

XVI After this strange transfiguration an intense thought came to me, one which seldom left me but rather continually oppressed me and spoke to me in this way: “You are ridiculous.� Musing on this, I commenced to write this sonnet, which begins: I have seen the eyes in which love put down. I have seen the eyes in which love put down when it has made it frightened of it, considers it while it has been annoyed then I say the heart wears a uniform if it were not the gender we have laughed I the sorry disguise with happy eyes, would speak about such light, of how many facts to imagine I have conquered from the sky the movements spirit in the man to have watched me and chosen to rest in my thought and contest my love to align every relative feeding to see it seems to me as the pools to have caught up to the relative heart This sonnet is divided into four parts.

XVII When my love greeted me, it was like the light the police place in your face when you are being questioned. And if you asked me any question, on any subject, my only answer was “love.� The love was the end of my violent feelings toward others. As if I were being an apple being cored, and stuffed up with the sight of my love only. I was evidently the definition of love, illustrating the qualities and essence of love. I was not a swift runner at this time.

XVIII After returning from vacation, I began looking for the love that I loved. To make a long story short, within days I had become scandalous. I wrote this sonnet to answer that chatter, which begins: becalms bedaubs bedims befog. becalms bedaubs bedims befog because bedecks befriends begrudged beclouds bedevils befits bequests bedews bespeaks betrays befouls befalls betroths bestirs begets before begets bereaves belies belabors belike bemused bewigged beneath belittles besot bewail begrimes bewares below bemoan benumbs begone between bestows behaves bespoke beheads begin beguiles between bewildered beholds belays belauds bestrides betimes betakes beside bereft berate This sonnet has three parts. In the first part I tell how I encountered Love and how it looked. In the second I relate what I was told. In the third I tell how it vanished. The second part begins: Yet as we met, the third: And then so much.

XIX At this time there was a great abundance of journalism circulating through the city concerning me, my love, and my love. For example, the journalism reported that I was massaging my love! I wish to clear up this matter directly. A deep question of corporeality is brought to light by this question of, in this case, could I touch lovingly my love with my hands, or did I not? On the other hand, my love could have forbade my touching in any way my love. I assure you that I was not forbid anything except the one thing I had known once, and saw in others, that is, to be freed from the fetters of love, to be “at liberty to say.� I confess on rare occasions I actually thought I had been loosed, and massaged my extremities to see if there were pleasure or pain. On these occasions, however, I was not not in love. Perhaps these instances were the cause of that journalism at that time.

XX Many marvelous things emanated from my love. I decided I should write words in which I should explain how praiseworthy was my love. Therefore I wrote this sonnet, which begins: give back my follied eyes, my main guardians. give back my follied eyes, my main guardians your figure is soft and godly valorous for which if you, my love, accuse me of not being fiery/crazy I’ll quit the court of love immanently they go away to the monsters I wander into my absurd servitude perched exhaling dolor my pig-tears crying a tremendous goodbye to my heart an army is tossing my reproduced senses into one part the work of the people and another the workshop of Love how can I see when everything’s pious and disarming? I make myself die and a servant, and do not hope for any God or death This sonnet is so easy to understand from that which has preceded it that it has no need of division; therefore, leaving it, I say that my love came into such high favor that not only was it honored and praised, but also many others loves were honored and praised through it.

XXI Let me describe to you the effects being so beheld by Love had on my physical appearance. As the canvas of the sky begins to show strains of rust at sunset, so did red cracks line my eyes, because of the constant weeping I felt the urgency to practice by virtue of being in love with my love and the abyss. At this time I was nervous. Often it was assumed that I was always going to some funeral of a beloved friend or other, because I wore only black clothing and accessories. In fact, I did not mourn being in love, but only the irreparable distance between myself and my love, and the constant harassment by law enforcement authorities, who thought significant my constant lovinglypracticed abyss-skirting of signification. I was told by others that when they encountered me the only thought in their heads was, “love.� This was the case even though I had not been forced to admit that I was, in fact, in love. Even less had I been required to divulge details about the love I loved.

XXII One day at about noon there rose in me against this adversary of reason a strong fantasy, so that I seemed to see my glorious love with those crimson garments with which it first appeared to my eyes. And then I wrote, lassos by pure force, and I said, lassos because I was ashamed of the fact that my eyes had wandered so. I do not divide this sonnet, since its story makes it clear enough. lassos by pure force melt by breathing, who does not know sadness or the heart the eyes drink wine and do not have valor so they regard the masks of much money from largesse the paean is due desire that weep in front of very sad monsters, especially the soft scare, if it’s love that uncertainly is the sun of martinis seek pension, and from breathing in a cave, I do not dive into the heart at angles but love seems three deaths if lying deposits perhaps she has in a story some sadness which the sweet name of my love wrote about and about death made melted speech

XXIII There are four true things about love. The first is, it seizes you in such a way that you do not know if it comes from inside or outside. The second is, once it has its way with you, there is no act of the will which can ward off the presence of the love. The third is, love is not willing to comply with the law, except when the law is law on account of love, which rarely but does happen in instances in which legislators are in love, thus legislating lovingly. The fourth is there is an accompanying despair in the fact that you cannot be your love, be the same substance as the love you love. This despair required that I spend many hours alone in my room, contemplating my love and the difference between us.

XXIV You may have heard that in the time I loved my love my love, O that I had no tongue to make the speech which real events require that I make, died. The grief I felt was very much like the woeful case of the heroine in that sad tale A Pornographic Day Romp. When I first heard the rumor that my love was dead, I, as I had done before, massaged my extremities to see if I was feeling pain or pleasure, and to my dismay I found that I was feeling both. I should mention to you that while I was in love with my love and my love was living the categories “pain” and “pleasure” did not suffice to contain the extreme feelings of, on one hand, joy that I loved, and on the other hand, despair that I was not my love instead of myself. At this time I found I was feeling pleasure and pain, and this to my horror confirmed that I had been freed from the shackles of love for my love. This is not, however, the end of the book.

XXV When I realized that my love was dead, I began immediately to write a poem grieving for my loss. I was unable to write a sonnet about my grief, but I did write the following poem, which begins: your love makes me feel like Otto the Welf. your love makes me feel like Otto the Welf This poem has two parts. In the first I speak to my eyes the way my heart was speaking within me; in the second I remove an ambiguity by making clear who it is that speaks this way, and this part begins here: like Otto the Welf. It could very well receive still further analysis, but this would be superfluous since it is made clear by the preceding account.

XXVI By now you are wondering if my love could have possibly died, if there was a question of the corporeality of my love. I wish to clear this up immediately. When my love was pronounced dead, I remained in my room and attempted to write sonnets, eulogizing and memorializing my love in order to keep my love young and alive forever. But I found that, no longer being in love, there was no longer the urgency or the possibility of poetry. This was distressing to me since I was a poet. It was around this time that the police sent a spy to my room for the purpose of spying upon me, despite the fact that my love had been pronounced dead and I was, therefore, no longer in love and, therefore no longer a suspicious character in city ________. This spy came to my room and interrogated me, and when I related my story from the start to the finish, this spy began to experience pity. I pitied the spy as well on account of the spy being a spy. Our mutual pity cleared up the leverage pity lends one being over another. At this very moment, I began to wonder if I was actually not in love.

XXVIII After this spy from the police had stayed a while and then left, I found that I was once again prepared to write poetry. I did not know what to call my state of being at that time, but did hear a miraculous angelic voice in my head, which resulted in this poem, which begins: vatic perfidy mends the one salute. vatic perfidy mends the one salute kills my Donner Trail done heyday’d; quells cheating con man liaison by nudes dumbbells graze a Dior ender’s Mercedes he sues beltways, he died, tends virtue can you envision a latrine procedure, and while facing an arsenic verdict digest lest a damn hour dies feted? Love is the suit for one cozy humor; he not for solace says, “pardon,” pees in the mafia juniper, lays receiving honors . Eden elicits sweat and a Gentile, chains under sip recovering men the chains on his peer in doll’s eye the while. This sonnet was clearly the first step toward memorializing my love forever.

XXIX After this sonnet there appeared to me a miraculous vision in which I saw things that made me resolve to say no more about this blessed love I loved, until I should be capable of writing about love in a more worthy fashion. And to achieve this I am striving as hard as I can, and this I know my love I loved truly also knows. So that, if it be the wish of Love that my life continue for a few years, I hope to write of my love that which has never been written of any other love. And then may it please the Other who is gracious. Furthermore the noise continued, though at times it grew slack. I knew by the reappearance of my physical ailments and the repeated visits by the police that I was in love and forever would be consigned to the eternal panoptical prison of Love. At times I thought about the love I had loved, and our story, and it always seemed to me that my love gazes upon the countenance of the Other who is through all ages blessed. This was in effect the end and beginning of the rest of my life as a lover.

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